(no subject)
Complete with that blue dress Ingres...
Something about the 1840s has always jived with my collective unconscious. It's not the most aesthetically flattering era for women in my opinion-- but something about it feels like home. The music. The books. The furniture. Things from this era settle a nice, comfortable wave across my eyes (as do most things that are familiar-- in a way I'm not even sure I comprehend).
At Sage, I hated being forced to take two feminist courses as a requirement for graduation. I never believed it was a hallmark of wisdom to walk around like an asshole and tell students to say "breasts" instead of "boobs" like my professors did. I resented the fact that I, as a grown woman of semi-decent intelligence, had to be subjected to putting together poster presentations in order to earn a baccalaureate degree.
Now. I can be pretentious and ignorant, but...
Senior year: Complete a capstone project in which you form a thesis. You must also design, execute, replicate, compile, write and present an original research project which, you must ensure ahead of time, does not match any more than two criteria of any psychology experiment conducted at Sage within the last 40 years.
Oh and by the way, we need to see your poster on Margaret Sanger as soon as the macaroni dries.
Hunh?
I felt like I could have used that time more efficiently. I still do, because if I'd have been allowed to take two more English classes I'd only need three to be a teacher right now. Still, in a small way I'm grateful for the second installment of our forced feminist tutelage. It was the part where we had to unite as Strawng Weemin and do something to benefit our community.
It was only lame in the sense that we had to talk about how it made us feel as females at the end. I dunno, wasn't it good enough to do something that might enrich the lives of others? I wasn't aware that, as a woman, my ego needed that much propping up.
Anyway. Other people were assigned shitty projects, but ours was beyond cool.
We trudged through grey February slush to tour the Troy Historical Society's collection of local family portraits. They were housed in the back rooms of this creepy old brownstone (woooo!), which incidentally also housed one of the "portrait people" when they were still alive (woooooooo!). More than a few times, I stopped by just to look at the house's mahogany fixtures and stare out its wavy windows onto 2nd Street.
We eventually designed a scavenger hunt for elementary school children based on items or details they could find in the paintings.
I love that portraits tell you much more about a person than their mere corporeal being. In a kind of macabre sense, it's the same feeling I get when when my Dad calls me over to look at crime scene photos-- but this is about refining your skills in celebration of life, not an attempt to decipher or bring justice to something that never should have happened.
I wonder how many of those kids hung on to the meaning of lilacs, or the subtle gestures of hands....
Something about the 1840s has always jived with my collective unconscious. It's not the most aesthetically flattering era for women in my opinion-- but something about it feels like home. The music. The books. The furniture. Things from this era settle a nice, comfortable wave across my eyes (as do most things that are familiar-- in a way I'm not even sure I comprehend).
At Sage, I hated being forced to take two feminist courses as a requirement for graduation. I never believed it was a hallmark of wisdom to walk around like an asshole and tell students to say "breasts" instead of "boobs" like my professors did. I resented the fact that I, as a grown woman of semi-decent intelligence, had to be subjected to putting together poster presentations in order to earn a baccalaureate degree.
Now. I can be pretentious and ignorant, but...
Senior year: Complete a capstone project in which you form a thesis. You must also design, execute, replicate, compile, write and present an original research project which, you must ensure ahead of time, does not match any more than two criteria of any psychology experiment conducted at Sage within the last 40 years.
Oh and by the way, we need to see your poster on Margaret Sanger as soon as the macaroni dries.
Hunh?
I felt like I could have used that time more efficiently. I still do, because if I'd have been allowed to take two more English classes I'd only need three to be a teacher right now. Still, in a small way I'm grateful for the second installment of our forced feminist tutelage. It was the part where we had to unite as Strawng Weemin and do something to benefit our community.
It was only lame in the sense that we had to talk about how it made us feel as females at the end. I dunno, wasn't it good enough to do something that might enrich the lives of others? I wasn't aware that, as a woman, my ego needed that much propping up.
Anyway. Other people were assigned shitty projects, but ours was beyond cool.
We trudged through grey February slush to tour the Troy Historical Society's collection of local family portraits. They were housed in the back rooms of this creepy old brownstone (woooo!), which incidentally also housed one of the "portrait people" when they were still alive (woooooooo!). More than a few times, I stopped by just to look at the house's mahogany fixtures and stare out its wavy windows onto 2nd Street.
We eventually designed a scavenger hunt for elementary school children based on items or details they could find in the paintings.
I love that portraits tell you much more about a person than their mere corporeal being. In a kind of macabre sense, it's the same feeling I get when when my Dad calls me over to look at crime scene photos-- but this is about refining your skills in celebration of life, not an attempt to decipher or bring justice to something that never should have happened.
I wonder how many of those kids hung on to the meaning of lilacs, or the subtle gestures of hands....